The Wish at the Cabaret
by Solvableenigma
Summary: Do not all beings have the right to be granted one final wish? Cynthia, champion of Sinnoh, believes this to be true. That means that she will go to any measure to ensure that those who are at the end are granted their wish. That means sometimes having to go to undesirable places and dealing with older men whose intentions are not always clear.


The fear of losing one's way is at the core of what can be considered humanity. Humans remain the only creature to find themselves in this crisis of identity and self-contentment, rejecting the ideals of instinctual existence to further the supposed ascension to a higher state of being. Perhaps this is why legends such as the one of the North Star exist. The legend states that if one is ever lost, one must merely look to the North Star and allow its light to lead one to salvation, whether it be spiritual or physical. Navigators swore by the star and the endless anecdotal evidence reported should have been enough of a deposition so as to convince all. Alas, humans are cynical beings and most disregard the star as nothing more than legend.

However, there will always be the believers, such as the founds of the famed Lumiose City, the brightest, most heaven-like city in all of Kalos. So proud of its own "enlightenment" was the place that an aura of superiority could be felt around its residents. To personify these beliefs, the Prism Tower was constructed. Whether it was built as a symbol of safe harbor or a symbol of superfluous arrogance is up to debate, but it nevertheless served a vital purpose; it forced the darkness of night into recess.

The Lumiose Guide purported that the light emanating from the tower could be seen from every area in the city. It claimed that there was no fear amongst the residents and visitors during the night hours because of this guardian against the evils of shadows. It was as if it was written in Lumiose Law that there must be light touching every wall, filling every alley, reflecting off every window, or otherwise acting upon every surface of the city. Of course, for every law, there are criminals and rebels, willing to defy for whatever reasons may suit them.

One such rebel was the alley in which Cynthia walked. A nameless offshoot of North Boulevard, it was unremarkable and unkept. Various articles of garbage lined the graffiti-ridden walls; a yellow smoke snaked around the woman's ankles as she walked. The click of her stiletto heels bounced off of the walls and added to the cacophonic symphony of wailing children, starving Pokémon, and the otherwise degenerate humans scuttling about.

She should have been nervous, terrified even, dressed as she was. A form-fitting black dress moved with her body and jingled with the sound of embroidered sequins. She could feel the eyes of those she passed by, they gazed in awe and hatred and envy. Her blonde hair flowed freely and shimmered against the full moon's glow, clean and straight. The occasional shadow diminished the moon's light to nothing for a moment, leaving the alley in darkness and the champion feeling comfortable.

Walking with confidence, she entered an area that widened out into almost a perfect square, almost. Homeless were huddled together, conversing in hoarse whispers and basking in the glow of a neon sign that mocked them on the opposite side of the space. Cynthia approached the sign. It was tacky and obtrusive, stuffed far too full with names scribbled on and then scratched out, and overflowing with the trophies of past performances that failed to ever make it out of the hole. In bright letters the establishment's name was spelled out. "Le Chat Noir," was followed by the image of a Liepard, tail curled tightly around its form, eyes made of light bulbs that flashed in time with the lazy jazz that was being produced by a sole speaker.

A heavy man sat on a chair in front of a door, his head nodding in an attempt to keep himself awake. Upon seeing Cynthia, he assumed a more upright posture as he nodded to the champion respectfully. She acknowledged this with a wave of her hand and pushed open the door to reveal the interior of the cabaret.

Dingy and poorly lit, the place assaulted Cynthia with unattractiveness. The air was filled with haze produced by the cigarettes which, in turn, caused the building to smell of tar and cheap tobacco. Violent reds clashed with the anxiety-inducing orange decor that creeped along the walls until it reached the chipping pearl paint of the ceiling. Tables were spread randomly on the floor each sporting a gaudy tablecloth and a foul-smelling candle that did little to illuminate the place. Dominating the majority of the establishment was a stage. The wood looked rotted and the curtain had been decimated by Mothim and other such bugs. An idle buzzing of chatter amongst patrons already seated overwhelmed the speaker system which occasionally sputtered and cracked.

"Over here!" a masculine voice emerged from the crowd, drawing Cynthia's attention. She focused on the corner from where she had heard the voice originate. A man stood there, arm waving casually then dropping when he and Cynthia made eye contact. She made her way over to him and he greeted her by way of grasping her hand gently and placing his lips upon it. They barely glanced her skin before he removed them and said, "Good evening." His voice echoed with past richness but was now hollow and rough.

"Quite the traditional one, aren't we?" Cynthia remarked as the man pulled out a chair for her. Taking the seat, she crossed her legs, revealing the slit in her dress that traveled up the side until it reached mid thigh.

Easing himself into the chair opposite hers, the man replied casually. "A little tradition is good once in a while, don't you think?" The question was not meant to be answered. "Wine?" the man offered, holding a bottle of Camphrier #12.

Cynthia moved her glass beneath the bottle. As the man was about to pour, she removed it, nearly causing a spill. The man's gaze hardened. With a wry smile, Cynthia asked, "Name?" Her fingers traced the rim of the glass sensually, extending and flexing smoothly.

Relaxing, the man smiled. "Vino," he responded, "Vino Igan, to be precise." He lifted the bottle once again.

This time, Cynthia acquiesced to his request. Soon, the royal purple liquid had filled the glass half-way and Vina carefully cut off the pour with practiced expertise. He carefully poured himself a glass and then put the bottle down. The two lifted their glasses and touched rims before each took a sip.

The drink was velvety and had a peculiar, but enjoyable quality to it. From her limited knowledge of wines, Cynthia knew that this was a rather expensive brand with Camphrier brand wine being renowned world-wide. It was quite the juxtaposition to the frugal atmosphere that surrounded her. Vino grunted and Cynthia glanced in his direction; she had not yet swallowed her wine.

"That's some strong stuff," he grumbled, hitting his chest with a fist as he coughed. He removed a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it. He folded it gently and returned it to its place in his pocket. Glancing at Cynthia, he noticed she had a peculiar expression on her face. "My apologies," he said with a hint of flush on his face, "I'm not as young as I look. How is your wine."

Cynthia rotated so that she faced the stage and brought the glass of wine back up to her lips, tilting it so that it appeared that she was taking a sip. However, she subtly spat the wine she had in her mouth back into the glass. Lowering her drink and setting it on the table, Cynthia gave her review. "It's really quite nice, thank you, Mr. Igan."

"Please," Vino urged, "Call me by my first name, it's what everyone calls me." The lights flickered on and off repeatedly for a brief time before returning to consistency. Socialites began to make their way to their seats and the remaining orders for food were placed. The show was soon to begin.

Cynthia gazed at Vino, knowing she most likely would not be able to get a good view of him after the lights went down. He was probably rather handsome in his youth. He had crisp, short salt-and-pepper colored hair that was beginning to become more salt than pepper. His face, aquiline in structure and demeanor, was wrinkled and he had bags under his eyes. He was clean shaven and he wore a pair of square spectacles that matched the color of his suit. It was pressed and sharp and made him appear broader than perhaps his old frame could manage. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Vino's back arched forward somewhat and his hands would occasionally shake. Dark blue veins bulged against the ghostly pallor of his skin, retreating into the cuff of his sleeve. Time ravages the beautiful the most.

The lights dimmed so that the only source of light came from unsubstantial "EXIT" signs. A portly man took the stage followed closely by a Purrloin which weaved its way through his legs as he walked. Arriving at center stage, he began his presentation. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice filling the once empty space. "It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to Le Chat Noir." He paused briefly to allow for the mild applause. "I am your host, Mr. Entrain, and I shall be introducing our acts tonight." Another pause and more applause. "To begin," he stepped to the side slightly as he began to compete with music to be heard. "We have the lovely and exotic, Ms. Marlai!"

He quickly exited and the music began its crescendo. As the music moved through the crowd a singular spotlight appeared on stage. In it was a woman adorned in a simple red dress. It was low-cut and plain, but fit her figure well and she moved with such grace that it did not matter what she wore. Each movement of her dance was accentuated, occasionally to an amateurish fault, by a snap of her limbs.

She swirled across the stage in a flourish of cloth and flesh, becoming no more than a blur. It was a true spectacle. She danced with such energy and passion that Cynthia could not help but admit that she was impressed. The dancer then fell to her knees and pleaded with an invisible, off-stage persona, eyes filled with desperation and she even managed to force herself to cry. She slowly rose from her kneeling position and moved to the center stage. Her movements were no longer vibrant and enthusiastic, but rather were sluggish and lethargic. For a few seconds, she gazed at nothing while the music drifted away into utter silence. Finally, she took in a shaky breath before grasping her dress and ripping it off.

The sound of fabric being torn made Cynthia wince slightly and the the girl's new outfit was nothing short of obscene. Her elegant and simple dress had been replaced by a skimpy bikini that shone and created dazzling displays of reflected light with its numerous embellishments. The girl looked ashamed and her face broke persona as she blushed profusely, exposing her body. A whistle of appreciation came from somewhere in the audience.

Cynthia's gaze narrowed as the girl began to dance once again, the music taking on a gritty, unclean feel with the heavy thumping of strip club drum beats. Her movements were uncomfortably sexual; she was stiff and awkward and lacked the grace that had enthralled Cynthia once before. The girl bent over and revealed her cleavage before hastily bringing herself back to her upright posture. This move earned her more cheers and claps and whistles. She continued to dance, legs extended to their full lengths, becoming nothing more than silhouettes in against the bright stage lights.

Music continued to pump as Ms. Marlai descended from the stage and began to make her way around the audience, swaying her hips and buttocks as she meandered around the crowd, casually waving or giving off a cute smile to a patron. At one table she stepped on an empty chair and placed a hand on a young man's shoulder. He returned the gesture with a vacant grin; he was young, probably young enough to be smitten with whatever attractive girl he saw. Drawing up her other hand, she kissed two of her fingers and then pressed them against the pocket of the boy's suit, right above his heart. With a wink and a twirl she moved away from him, he false smile failing her for a split second.

She continued her tour of the group, taking caution to avoid those that had food on their tables or with notable brands of wine. As she was about to make her grand finale, she locked eyes with Cynthia. The dancer quickly removed her gaze from the champion. However, she could not resist the temptation for long and refocused on Cynthia, who, in return, offered comfort in a knowing smile and she gave a palm-up hand gesture for the younger girl to finish.

The girl obliged. She regained her place on a stage and with sweat glistening from her exertions allowed herself to fall, creating a resounding smack as skin slammed against wood as the music was suddenly cut off.

Arising from her position, Marlai bowed to the invisible figure offstage and suddenly a Pokéball was thrown at her. Barely catching it, the girl then whirled to face the audience and raised the ball above her head. She then bowed to the guests and made her exit with the polite clapping of the crowd sending her off.

Cynthia bit her lip and crossed her arms over her chest and re-crossed her legs protectively. Vino noticed this and smiled.

"Did you enjoy that performance?" he asked suavely, or rather, as suavely as he was able with his voice being so weak.

"She was a brilliant dancer," Cynthia commented in an airy tone. "Why she decided to add that last part is beyond me."

"Perhaps she thought it necessary?" Vino suggested, taking a rather large gulp of his wine. He put it down with a shaky hand and began to hack a little. He reached for his handkerchief, but his fit subsided so he retracted it.

Cynthia shook her head. "Stuff like that is rarely necessary, not when you have talent like that."

"It's her performance, she will do what she thinks is right, we all do."

Mr. Entrain had long introduced the next performer. He was some clueless poet with no concept of flow or any consideration to the potential ramifications of forcing rhymes where rhymes clearly should not be. Cynthia tuned him out.

She turned to Vino and whispered, "Is there any way to talk to that girl?"

Vino, who had closed his eyes, responded, "Probably not. They usually kick the performers out after they do their little show. I don't know why."

Cynthia sighed and pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. She looked around at her surroundings. The people who viewed the spectacle were not the kind to which she was accustomed. She usually saw trainers and reporters and government officials and other such "important" people. These were regular folks who lived regular lives. Some were here for the thrill of being in such a run-down establishment masquerading as fanciful fools enjoying classy shows. Others were here because it was free. The performers did what they did because they had nowhere else to turn, or maybe it was so they could make a statement with their art that was deemed "undesirable" by the rest of the would and "misunderstood" by the pretentious. Such seemed to be the case with the poor poet who was being hurried off of the stage by the booing and hissing given to him by the audience. Even the lower end crowd had standards.

Mr. Entrain arrived on stage. "My apologies, ladies and gentlemen." An uncomfortable silence. "He won't be back...ever." This, however, was met with a mixture of laughter and ecstatic cheering, some of which was contributed by Cynthia and Vino. "Anyway, next up, we have an rather bizarre act simply known as "The Brothers!"

He left the stage as two costume-clad figures pushed two prop staircases onto the stage. A backdrop was then added to complete the scene. The backdrop was not a traditional landscape or setting; it was split in half by color. One was a swirling mixture of vibrant baby blue and a sunshine yellow. The colors danced playfully with each other and seemed to be holding hands. The other half was an alternating pattern of a solid line of dull gray and blood-red. Gray. Red. Gray. Red. Gray. Red. So many lines in such stringent structure, it was almost disorienting despite being orderly and arranged.

One staircase was placed in front of the yellow and blue portion and the other in front of the red and gray part. The two performers solemnly moved to the front of the stage. They bowed in time with each other and then one began to jig.

He wore an outlandish outfit. It was one piece, covering almost every part of his body except for his face. Colored black as midnight and equally as thick, the suit looked horribly uncomfortable. On either side of his head were two horns facing downward with bells attached that jingled with each step of the jig. His face was painted with bright red circles around his eyes and a blue frown painted overtop of his lips.

The jig he performed was a frantic one, peppy and upbeat with near constant motion occurring in his lower half. However, his upper body remained stoic. Then, he moved. Still dancing, he managed to make his way to the bottom of the staircase in front of the yellow and blue scenery. Displaying a phenomenal degree of agility and footwork, he continued his silent jig up the stairs until he reached the very top step. His feet danced on the two-square-foot top step, barely restraining themselves from slipping and falling off of the prop.

Then, he stopped and the light shifted to his partner. His partner was dressed similarly, only he appeared to be the inverse of the original dancer. His outfit was a bright white that reflected the stage lights brilliantly. His horns were wired upright and the bells seemed to be much more jubilant. His face was painted with green circles around his eyes and an crimson smile over his lips.

The dance he performed, however, seemed to be the antithesis of his appearance. His body snaked and contorted in bizarre formations; movements that were impossible for most humans, and even most Pokémon were executed with astonishing proficiency. His motions were sinister and alluded to an air of distrust. He, too, moved from his original position and took his place at the bottom of the second set of stairs in front of the red and gray backdrop.

The original dancer then began to perform his jig while the secondary continued his formations. The two continued like this for a time until the first performer began to descend the stairs while his partner simultaneously ascended his flight of stairs. When the two were at the same height, they turned their heads and gave each other a curt nod. They then proceeded with their movements until the positions were now reversed.

This up-and-down act was the bulk of the performance and it continued for a time. Suddenly, the backdrop began to undulate. The colors rippled and revealed that the fabric was quite reflective, sending waves of colored light in all different directions. The backdrop parted and revealed a Ludicolo dancing in the middle of the two halves. It moved with the usual vibrancy of the species and swung itself around the two stairs with both of the performers dancing their respective dances in the middle of each. Their heads followed the Pokémon as it gyrated around them with fanatic energy.

The two dancers waited until the Ludicolo was once again in the middle of them where it stopped, took a bow and remained in the bowing position. The inverse dancers faced each other once again, nodded quickly, and then ceased their movements. Following suit with the Ludicolo, they bowed.

Wordlessly, they began to deconstruct their set with remarkable haste, each disassembling the piece on which they had performed. The audience clapped hesitantly. It was unsure what to think of the performance and it was more of an obligatory applause than any sort of real exclamation of accolade.

Mr. Entrain appeared once more and announced, "We shall take a short break and then we will close with our final performer!" He bounded offstage and the lights rose to their former dimness. Crowds of people made their way to the bathrooms or went outside to get some air.

Cynthia remained seated and fanned herself. Looking over at Vino, who had removed his jacket and was in the process of loosening his blue tie, and stated, "I think there was supposed to be a meaning in there."

Chuckling, Vino responded, "The mind of the avant-garde is a curious thing."

The two laughed before Vino descended into another coughing fit. He hacked and spat uncontrollably, all the while attempting to apologize to Cynthia for his ailment. The champion dismissed his apologies as unnecessary and turned away to allow the man to finish his fit. She noted, however, that he had become significantly more slumped and his hands shook perpetually, occasionally erupting into a violent shiver. The hand not covering his mouth was pressed tightly against his stomach and he was sweating profusely, too much even for the stuffy atmosphere of the room.

Cynthia grinned. "As a historian, I must compliment your research, Mr. Igan." She spoke softly and with little embellishment in her voice.

"I cannot fathom what you mean by that, my lady," Vino retorted, gulping down the final drops of his wine before slamming the glass down unintentionally harshly which broke the base. "I do not even know what I would have researched."

His façade was unconvincing. "The place, the acts, and, of course, you know me."

"Obviously I know you," Vino snorted with a false indignance. "You are the champion of Sinnoh, reputed to be the strongest of all the champions."

"Ah, but you know more, Vino, you know my history, perhaps you know far too much."

Vino smiled. "I suppose my charade is over."

The lights fell to darkness and Mr. Entrain became the center focus once more. "Now," he shouted melodramatically, "We proceed to our final act. A regular show-stopper here, performing an original song, I present: Ms. Cantos!"

He bowed and extended an arm to present a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. Her brown hair was tied back in a tight bun so as to accentuate her doll-like make-up. A thigh-length blue dress shimmered beautifully and a microphone was held in shoddily manicured hands. Holding the microphone to her lips, she sang:

_"I haven't the slightest idea_

_of your truest heart_

_Sing for me your siren song_

_Blessed lullaby"_

Cynthia closed her eyes and leaned back her in chair, allowing the woman's voice to fill her being. It was robust and full, yet held a bit of rasp that gave it an alluring edge. However, as Cynthia was on the precipice of being fully possessed by the song, Vino's voice cut through just loud enough so that only Cynthia could hear.

"Such a morose song," he mused.

_"Here I stand, your lover"_

Cynthia glared at him. "Yes, and I would like to enjoy it."

_"But there you hold, my villain"_

Vino chuckled. He then groaned quietly as his hand came to press on his stomach once again. Recovering his pose, he stated, "There is something endearing about certainty."

_"Perhaps we shall meet again"_

He continued. "We find ourselves in this messed up world filled with virulence and confusion."  
_"Or maybe, it was not meant to be"_

"And then we are expected to find our way," Vino spat bitterly.

_"Touch me if you wish to die!"_

Cynthia remained silent so Vino continued. "Endless mistakes are made."

_"I hold my knife to you!"_

"But of course, these mistakes are passed off as necessary lessons, required for our growth as living beings."

_"There is a way to save your life!"_

Cynthia squeezed her eyes shut and pushed her hands against her temples. A cold sweat had overtaken her and she had the unruly desire to remove her dress.

_"Sing for me your lullaby!"_

"Still we persist, though!" Vino exclaimed excitedly resulting in another rush of pain coursing through his midsection.

Ms. Cantos's voice was soft now. _"I am now your greater."_

"We push and force and crawl and violate and brawl and hate and care until we have something resembling success!"

_"Dare to look, ignorant fool?"_

Cynthia shook her head. The song was far too impactful and Vino was spouting existential nonsense.

_"Such a good creature you are."_

"Then someone will always come and take it away! Take away everything that you've worked for, everything you've bled for!"

_"Why do you look so smug?"_

Vino was suddenly calm, as if his rant was his own personal catharsis. "But none of that matters. Success is temporary, finite, uncertain."

_"Surpass me? How so?"_

"Thank you, Cynthia, champion," Vino breathed, reclining into his chair and staring up at the ceiling, eyes blank and glazed.

_"Touch me, please now, Honey_

_I beg of you!"_

"Thank you for filling my final wish."

_"One final wish I have"_

"I have lived fully and completely, if dishonorably."

_"A lullaby, won't you?"_

"Certainly," Vino said before trailing off.

_"Certainly,"_ she sang before trailing off.

There was a brief moment of silence. In that moment of silence, the world ceased to exist. Cynthia was the only reality, she herself was existence in and of itself. All things before were illusory and the concept of "future" was a fallacy. Space and time meant nothing for they were nothing, not anymore. Cynthia merely held herself, arms wrapped around her torso like a straightjacket, hugging her own body in a cold embrace. Words violated her, assaulting her from all angles. She attempted to will them away. Words should not exist, she should be the only existence. Still they persisted. They swarmed her and bombarded her with dogged determination.

A roar returned the world. The audience was rewarding Ms. Cantos with a standing ovation. Whistles and shouts of appreciation echoed in the small cabaret as the singer blushed and bowed repeatedly.

Cynthia stood as well, leaving only one still in his seat. She joined in the boisterous applause, clapping her hands together. She smiled and whispered, "You're welcome..."

Extending herself to her full height, Cynthia reached across her table and filled Vino's glass with the remaining wine from the bottle. She then moved a napkin from its resting place. She pinched a small white package between her thumb and index finger and examined it closely. It was unremarkable and unlabeled, but tiny granules fell from its torn bottom. Shaking her head, Cynthia palmed the package and began to make her exit, the audience still cheering.

Their voices and claps were distant to Cynthia as she pushed open the door. Dawn touched the horizon and the sky began to illuminate itself. It drowned the light of the Prism Tower, pushing it away into the deep blue of the sky like it was filth.

Cynthia's heels clicked, the only sound in the city as she removed a contract from her charity. The foundation granted final wishes to those who felt that they were in Death's hands. Many people wished to spend some form of time with a champion or Elite Four member. Vino Igan was her most recent participant. She had been skeptical, having known of Le Chat Noir's dubious reputation, but she agreed to attend the show with him, and now she was thankful that she did so.

"Thank you..." she muttered under her breath. A shadow flew over the sky and gave a roar. Her Garchomp was forever her loyal protector.

She exited the alley and found herself greeted with a swarm of police officers. They quickly recognized her and allowed her safe passage before filing into the cramped, dank alleyway, orders being shouted in organized chaos.

Cynthia grinned one final time as she entered Lumiose Station and awaited a train to take her to the coast.

"Thank you...Giovanni."


End file.
